


(500) Days of Kise

by orphan_account



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: 500 Days of Summer - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Asian American Verse, Domesticity, Dumbasses Who Don't Know They're in Love, F/F, M/M, Making Dreams Come True, Pining, cheeseballs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Yukio Kasamatsu's life is a romantic comedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(500) Days of Kise

**Author's Note:**

> Here be [Character Profiles](http://gouenjis.tumblr.com/post/30088080088)!

Ryota sparkles into Yukio’s life.   
  
He would try to put it in better terms, but the longer Yukio thinks about it, the more he finds that there is no better way to put it. Kazunari would tell him that he’s just being a lovestruck idiot, and Tetsuya would say something like, “Yukio, please get your eyes checked, nobody actually sparkles.” But Ryota has a certain quality that draws Yukio’s attention to him every time and keeps it there, like nobody else in the room matters. It makes his heart pound and his head start to cloud up, and the world starts to spin. In short, he’s positive that Ryota sparkles.  
  
“Close your mouth, or you’re going to look like a creep when he gets here,” Kazunari tells Yukio the first time he sees Ryota at the office. Their boss is taking Ryota around, introducing him to the other employees. He’s getting closer and closer to the cubicle that Yukio and Kazunari share, and Yukio hasn’t stopped staring at him once.   
  
Social survival instincts kick in then, or at least that’s what he initially thought. Then the new hire waves and introduces himself (“Hi! I’m Ryota Kise, nice to meet you”), and Yukio opens his mouth and says “HiI’mYukioKasamatsunicetomeetyoutooyou’rereallypretty.” With that, all delusions of getting off on the right foot sizzle and die.  
  
He can practically hear Kazunari’s eyes rolling out of his head, but Ryota keeps smiling. It’s a confused sort of smile, like he’s apologetic for not comprehending, and it’s entirely too cute. “Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”  
  
Yukio wants to shrivel up. “Um, Yukio Kasamatsu,” he finally mutters, looking down at his desk. He’s going to word vomit again if he keeps looking at Ryota’s smile. Only when he passes by their desk and goes into the copy room does Yukio let himself look up and sigh. There’s no chance for him, standing on Isle de Yukio, with a guy like Ryota, and he lets that act as his guiding thought when it comes to talking to him.  
  
For instance when Ryota passes by his desk in the mornings, Yukio does his best to avert eye contact and say a quick “Hi” in reply. Even when Ryota stops and asks him questions like, “How’s it going?” or “Did you do anything fun over the weekend?” he answers with as few words as possible.   
  
“This is why you’re a bitter single,” Kazunari informs him one afternoon after Ryota stops by his desk on the way to the copy room to ask if Yukio needs anything from there. When Yukio just shook his head, Ryota had lingered, asking him questions about the card he was working on (“Congratulations on your one-week anniversary!” Did anyone actually need a bullshit card like that?). He only left after Yukio blurted something out about being busy.  
  
“Who says I’m bitter? Not everyone wants to be in a gross relationship like yours!”  
  
Kazunari’s been dating the same guy since high school. Yukio still can’t fathom it, but then again it’s not like he wants to spend a lot of time thinking about Kazunari and his boyfriend, Shintarou, who’s a med student at UCLA. He always feels like he needs a bucket to projectile vomit into whenever he’s hanging out with them, especially when Kazunari makes those horrifying googly eyes at “Shin-chan.” The very thought brings a grimace to his face as he turns back to the task at hand.  
  
“You’re special in my heart!” stares up at him when Ryota passes by again. He glares very hard at the nauseatingly happy smiley face on the card’s cover. Yukio isn’t bitter. What does Kazunari know anyway? He hates the Clippers and eats cheese whip straight out of the can.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he calls out “Ryota!” who turns around and looks at him expectantly. Not ten seconds ago, Yukio thought he could say something more substantial than “Your smile is like sunshine,” but looking at Ryota’s face makes his mind empty out into silence.  
  
“Is the copier working?” he asks, and tells himself that he’s mistaken when he thinks Ryota’s face falls.  
  
“Yeah, it’s fine.” He smiles and walks back to his desk, leaving Yukio alone with an unwritten card and the realization that he is totally ill-equipped to deal with his growing infatuation.  
  
*  
  
After two weeks of Yukio trying and failing to talk to Ryota and moping around about it, Kazunari institutes a limit on how often Yukio can mention Ryota’s name in a conversation and starts telling Yukio to just make out with him in the copy room. It’s the least helpful advice ever, so one Friday Yukio just calls in sick and drives down to Tetsuya’s school.  
  
Yukio has known Tetsuya for as long as he’s known Shintarou. Apparently they went to middle school together and have kept in contact since then. It’s another mystery Yukio will never solve: why someone like Tetsuya would want to keep being friends with a dumbass like Shintarou who still checks his horoscope every day and carries around a lucky item. He guesses it’s a good thing they did, though, because otherwise he and Tetsuya wouldn’t have met.   
  
Tetsuya works as a kindergarten teacher, and his classroom seems to be in the middle of a Category Five hurricane when Yukio drops in. There are screaming children everywhere, and Tetsuya kneels in the middle of it all, wiping one small girl’s tears away while simultaneously fending off two other children’s attempts to decorate him with Mr. Sketch markers.   
  
“Hello, Yukio,” he greets him calmly. “You should sit behind my desk. Otherwise you might get hit by toy helicopters.”  
  
Yukio takes his advice. By the time Tetsuya has corralled the children into some version of civilized behavior, getting them to sit at tables and draw or play with the toys without hitting each other, Yukio has reassessed his friendship with Shintarou. Shintarou’s probably a piece of cake compared to these horrors.   
  
“They’re always like this at the end of the day,” Tetsuya says, pulling up one of the tiny chairs that his students use and sitting on it. Yukio offers him his own chair back, but Tetsuya shakes his head. “Are you here to talk about Ryota?”  
  
Yukio feels his brow furrow. “Wait, how do you--” Tetsuya stares at him unblinkingly. “Kazu....” he mutters under his breath.   
  
As always, Tetsuya waits patiently for him to say his piece before giving his input, which is either  a long look or a comforting word of advice. So it’s to his dismay when Tetsuya blinks at him and says, “Your life isn’t a high school drama. Nothing will change unless you do something yourself.”  
  
“What?” He frowns. “I _have_  been doing something, like making a fool of myself.” It makes his neck burn just thinking about it.  
  
Tetsuya just smiles at him. “I’m sure even you can navigate at least one conversation with him successfully.” Then Yukio remembers exactly what he’s talking about: the saga of Tetsuya’s unwitting firefighter boyfriend, and finds that he actually isn’t sure whether to feel encouraged or not after his visit.  
  
If he goes home and strums away on his guitar about good times for a change, then definitely no one’s the wiser to the fact that he sings along to Morrissey alone.  
  
*  
  
Despite everything that Kazunari says about Morrissey, the Smiths beat out all other bands when Yukio is in need of a good brood. That’s why he lies on his back and props his feet against the wall, letting the spaces of his apartment be his audience.  
  
“Good times,” he sings, tuning his guitar, the same one he’s played since college. Yukio clears his throat and tries again: “Good times for a change.” The tune comes back to him and he lets the pick drag over the strings as he falls back into the beat. He knows it’s more than a little sad to think about Ryota while he’s singing this, but that’s the entire _point_  of this brooding session, and besides, nobody is here to make fun of him for it.   
  
Tetsuya told him to take action, but he doesn’t even know what kind of action he should be taking. Every time he sees Ryota he just wants to blurt out a line from one of their company’s cards, and whenever Ryota so much as walks nearby he manages to do something really embarrassing. Like the time when Ryota was walking past his desk and smiled at him, and Yukio, who was taking a drink of water, completely missed his mouth and soaked the front of his shirt.  
  
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Ryota asked. “Let me go get some paper towels for you.”  
  
“No, no, I’m fine! It’s nothing!” Yukio insisted, while Kazunari just sniggered from behind his computer screen. But Ryota had gotten the paper towels for him anyway and even tried to pat him try as Yukio felt all his arteries rerouting blood to his face because there was less than two inches between them. He’d finally snatched the paper towels away from Ryota and said he could dry himself off. Ryota looked disappointed, but that was probably just because Yukio sounded like an ungrateful asshole.  
  
Then there’s the time that Kazunari refers to as “The Great Lost Opportunity,” when Ryota had come up to his desk glowing like someone had just given him the greatest gift and asked if Yukio wanted to go with him to the Starbucks around the corner.  
  
“Um, why?” Yukio wanted to punch himself in the face as soon as the words had left his mouth. The correct response would have been, “Yes, yes, definitely yes. Oh, and how about dinner this weekend?”   
  
“Some of the others said they wanted coffee, and I was going to go get a Very Berry Hibiscus anyway, so I offered to get their drinks too. I can’t carry everything back by myself, though, so I was wondering if you’d like to go with me.” He smiled.  
  
Yuko was doomed. He could feel the word vomit coming up even as he tried to stop it. “Idon’tdrinkcoffeeit’sokayyoushouldtakeKazunari.”  
  
Ryota tilted his head to the side in confusion, and Yukio wanted to die. “Sorry, did you say to take Kazunari?”  
  
“He...” Yukio ignored Kazunari shaking silently in his chair. “He really...likes...coffee...”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
And then Ryota went off with Kazunari, and they came back best friends. Yukio would have been worried except that he’d overheard Kazunari talking to Shintarou on the phone that morning and it was as disgusting as usual. He mourned his life.   
  
Actually, now that he thinks about it, everything about this situation warrants his impromptu heart-to-heart jam with Morrissey. He’s twenty-five, with his life relatively in order, yet he can’t even make conversation with a coworker, much less ask him out on a date. All he needs to say is one word: “Dinner?” or even “Coffee?” and it would probably be okay. Probably. There’s always the chance that Ryota could laugh in his face and say no, which all things considered, wouldn’t be too outrageous.  
  
“Hi,” he says. _I know I’ve blurted out things in your face and generally made a fool of myself in a professional capacity, but I can’t help but ask_. “Dinner?”  
  
Staring at his floor, he counts to ten, possibly waiting for Ryota to pop up from the woodwork and say “Of course I would, Yukio.” His hopes go unanswered, and he puts his guitar away. Maybe on Monday  he’ll be able to ask without falling flat on his face.  
  
*  
  
“Looks like you haven’t lost it, old man,” Kazunari says, grinning at him. Sweat pours down his neck as he feints a steal at the ball. Yukio’s faster, and he takes off behind him, running towards the basket.  
  
Why Kazunari feels compelled to call him old man every single time they play basketball despite only being two years younger is beyond him, but he isn’t going to let him get away with it.  
  
“Old man says you,” he snorts, as he jumps up to shoot. He smirks when the ball swishes through the net, and goes to get it.   
  
“Now if only you could make asking someone out look that easy.”  
  
He drops the ball and glares at Kazunari, who looks entirely too amused for his own good. “Screw you,  _Nari_.”   
  
Kazunari doesn’t even have the good sense to be embarrassed by the fact that his boyfriend calls him something as barf-worthy as “Nari.” He just shrugs and says, “Don’t be jealous just because you don’t have anyone to call you cute nicknames.”  
  
Suppressing the urge to tell him exactly how he feels about his “cute nicknames,” Yukio goes to bring the ball back in court. He ignores his mournful lament of his youth as well, standing at the half court line. Bracing himself for the shot, he keeps his eyes on the basket.  
  
“If you can just get past the part where you eject words from your mouth at a normal speed, I think you two could have something good.” A regular motor mouth, this one. Yukio does his best to tune him out, and it’s easy enough, coming from long years of practice.  
  
Eyes on the basket. Feet mounted for a jump. Fingers in position. He has it, so he jumps and lets the memory of the action guide him through the moment. The ball hits the rim and spins for half a second, like it can’t decide if it should go in or not, before it falls through the hoop with a satisfying swoosh. Yukio lets a smile spread across his face.  
  
“Holy shit,” Kazunari breathes. “Dude.” Yukio pays him no mind, taking the ball back into his hands.  
  
“So remind me again why you didn’t go pr--”  
  
“Loser buys dinner!” he announces, taking the rebound and running down the court at full speed.  
  
Kazunari lets him change the subject, trailing after him with a loud “Hey, I never agreed to that!” There are some things that he’s almost willing to talk about, like his phantom of a love life, but he doesn’t need to discuss this now, or ever really.  
  
“How do burgers sound, Kazu?” he asks, watching his three-pointer effortlessly fall into the basket, and it’s like no time has passed at all.  
  
*  
  
Yukio’s in a good mood when he gets to work on Monday, thanks to basketball and the burgers that Kazunari bought him after their game. The smile from the free throws hasn’t faded at all, not even when he walks over to his desk and sees the stack of cards he has yet to make fit for Hallmark. He even has the presence of mind to say something more than “yeah” when Ryota makes his morning commute past his desk and greets him.  
  
“You look happy today,” he comments, leaning against the cubicle. “Something good happen this weekend?”  
  
Yukio swivels around in his chair, turning to face him, and smiles. “I guess you could say that. I kicked Kazunari’s ass in a basketball game.” He thinks to look sheepish for a second, sounding inordinately proud of himself for a one-on-one game, but Ryota looks sincerely interested. Also it’s been approximately twenty seconds since this conversation began, and he hasn’t said the words “pretty”, “smile”, or “Ishouldgetbacktowork.” Yukio thinks that counts as a small success.  
  
“You play basketball?” Ryota says. “That’s so cool. I love basketball!”   
  
“Really?” This is a record for how long he’s managed to hold it together while talking to Ryota, so before he can stop himself, he starts talking about his favorite team (the Clippers, screw what Kazunari says), favorite players, games he’s watched recently--everything he loves about basketball, despite not having set foot on a real court for years. When he realizes that he’s been going on for five minutes without letting Ryota get a word in edgewise, he stops and rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Sorry, I got kind of carried away.”  
  
“No, it’s totally fine!” Ryota looks excited instead of bored as he seats himself on the edge of Yukio’s desk. Yukio tries not to stare at his ass and focuses on his face instead, where there’s the widest smile. “I can’t believe you like the Clippers--” _Please don’t let him be a Lakers fan_ , Yukio thinks, before Ryota finishes his sentence. “--they’re my favorite team too!”  
  
Yukio blinks. “What.” He wants to wince; the disbelief could have been executed in a way that didn’t suggest he was a mannerless five year old. Ryota doesn’t seem to notice, however, and keeps smiling.  
  
“I’ve met like one other Clippers fan in my entire life,” he says, looking overjoyed. “Everyone else in L.A. is into the Lakers.”  
  
“Bandwagonners,” Yukio says. He ignores Kazunari’s snort of derision from his side of the desk.   
  
“Seriously.” He shakes his head, as if to say _tsk tsk_. Yukio thinks he’s in love. “Next time you decide to play, you should invite me too.”  
  
Yukio has a horrible premonition of tripping over his sneakers and dropping the ball everywhere. “S-Sure,” he answers.  
  
If Ryota notices how nervous he is, he gives no indication, instead tilting his head a little to look at him. “So, what else do you like to do?” he asks.  
  
He’s been doing so well up until now, but it’s like Ryota’s question causes his brain to short circuit again. What else does he like besides basketball? _I like to fantasize about talking to you without vomiting words_.  Right, he still hasn’t developed that “List of Hobbies” that he’s supposed to use for small talk. Staring up into Ryota’s face makes the old and familiar feeling rise up again inside him, like his tongue is tied up and there are literal butterflies having a rave in his stomach.  
  
Maybe that’s why the first answer he comes up with is “Tofu.”   
  
Shit.  
  
To his credit, Ryota’s smile only falters for a split second before it’s back in full force. “Oh, I...that’s nice. I like tofu, too. Hey, you know, speaking of tofu, I was wondering...” He leans down, like he’s about to share a secret with Yukio. Yukio can’t help noticing that he smells like something citrusy, sharp and clean. “We should get lunch together sometime.”  
  
Yes! Yukio’s brain shouts. “Um,” his mouth helpfully translates. “Idon’tknowI’musuallybusyatlunch.” He swears he’s going to communicate via text from now on: his brain-to-mouth mechanics are obviously broken.   
  
Ryota must be getting better at understanding his run-on sentences, because he doesn’t look confused, just disappointed. “Oh, well...maybe if you’re ever free...”  
  
Yukio’s working up the willpower to force out a concise “Yes, I’d love to have lunch with you” when their boss calls out Ryota’s name and Ryota slides off his desk.   
  
“Oops, gotta go,” he says. “Don’t want to let the boss think I’m slacking off. See you later, Yukio! You too, Kazu.” He waves at them before disappearing out of the cubicle, leaving Yukio to stare at the spot on his desk where he’d been only a second ago.   
  
Kazunari’s voice finally calls his attention back to things other than memories of Ryota’s scent and how close he’d been. “I’m usually busy at lunch? Doing what? Eating?”  
  
“Shut up,” Yukio groans, slumping over his desk and burying his head in his arms. “Shut up, leave me alone, I’m going to die.”  
  
“Yeah, and you’re going to die alone. _I’m busy at lunch_. Dude, please.”  
  
Yukio throws the stack of unfinished cards at him.  
  
*  
  
He hates loud noises. He also hates off-tune loud noises. Which is why he’s really confused when he finds himself sitting across Ryota at karaoke night, nursing a glass of juice. The vague and distant memory of Kazunari roping him into going to the bar with the rest of the office lingers, and Ryota had insisted he join them. Next thing he knew, he was nodding and stammering out his acceptance.  
  
All of that still doesn’t explain why Ryota is sitting across the table from him and Kazunari, with his own glass of passion fruit mojito already half gone. He’s playing with the plastic flower in his drink, and when he sees Yukio staring, he smiles and says, “It’s a morning glory.”  
  
“Um?” Yukio doesn’t want to admit that he wasn’t even looking at the flower: he was looking at Ryota’s hands, at the way his long fingers curled around the glass and twirled the flower stem between them.   
  
“The flower,” Ryota repeats, “it’s a morning glory.”  
  
“Oh, that’s...” His interest in flowers is exactly zero, but he doesn’t want the conversation to die there. Kazunari is elbowing him in the ribs. “You like flowers?” That’s an acceptable question, right?  
  
Apparently, it’s more than acceptable, because Ryota nods eagerly. “Yeah! My parents own a nursery, so I grew up around a lot of flowers.” He starts chattering about tulips and orchids and other names that Yukio can’t remember, as well as which flowers look best for certain decorating schemes and which ones are appropriate for which occasions. Most of it goes over Yukio’s head, but he knows from the way Ryota’s eyes go bright and the way he uses his hands to gesticulate that this is something he really loves. That’s good enough for him.   
  
And then Ryota says, “Everyone loves roses, but I think they’re overrated. Sunflowers are my favorite,” and Yukio wants to run out and buy a bouquet of sunflowers right then.   
  
Somehow, he doesn’t think “You’re a sunflower” is an appropriate response to that, even though everything from Ryota’s hair to the way he brightens up any room he’s in would seem to suggest otherwise. Instead, he says, “Sunflowers are pretty.” _Like you_. “I...I like them too.”  
  
Kazunari makes a choking noise into his drink and Yukio elbows him, hard. Ryota doesn’t seem to notice. He takes the flower out of his drink and wipes it off on a napkin. “Here,” he says, and before Yukio even knows what’s going on, Ryota’s leaning across the table and tucking the flower--morning glory, Yukio remembers--behind his ear. For once, Yukio’s glad that he’s frozen; otherwise he might have flailed and accidentally hit Ryota in the face, and that would have totally ruined the moment.  
  
“You look so pretty right now, Yuki-chan,” Kazunari sniggers, and Yukio glares at him.   
  
“It’s cute,” Ryota says. Suddenly the urge to rip the flower off subsides. Yukio touches it gingerly, hoping it doesn’t fall off, and stares down at the table.   
  
“Um...thanks,” he mumbles.  
  
The moment lasts for all but a split second when he suddenly hears his name up front at the mic. “Yukio, I think you owe us a song!” It’s his boss talking, clearly a little bit on this side of inebriated, but Yukio knows exactly what happens when he refuses. Shuddering a little at the memory, he steals a shot out of Kazunari’s drink. He _cannot_  do this completely sober.  
  
“Are you going to sing?” Ryota asks, clearly amused.  
  
“Well...looks like it,” he says, scratching his head.  
  
“Good luck, then.” Ryota’s smile turns lopsided and Yukio’s heart stutters.  
  
“Th-thanks.” He makes his way to the mic, two parts anxiety and one part excitement. “Just so you know,” he announces, “I have absolutely no idea what I’m about to be prompted to sing, so I’ll apologize beforehand.”  
  
It’s a mild relief when the music starts and he recognizes what song it’s supposed to be from. Tapping his foot, he looks at the screen and does his best not to imitate a dying cat. “Why do you let me stay here, all by myself?”  
  
Encouraged by the positive response, he lets the shot of Kazunari’s disgusting cocktail run through his system and makes appropriate gestures at the audience. “We like the same things and I like your style.” He sees Ryota’s face, watching him with interest. “It’s not a secret, why do you keep it?”  
  
Yukio thanks his lucky stars that the song barely lasts three minutes, waving a hand at demands for another song. “You said one, Alan!” he laughs, before taking his seat back at the table. He doesn’t expect to come back to Kazunari and Ryota halting their conversation at his arrival. Giving Kazunari a suspicious look, he sits down.  
  
“Crowd pleaser, this one,” Kazunari says, nudging a drink in his direction. Yukio puts it back in front of him and rolls his eyes. “Did you know he plays guitar too?”  
  
Ryota’s eyebrows go up at that one. “No, I didn’t hear about that.”  
  
They look positively conspiratorial, suddenly thick as thieves again. Yukio would groan, if Kazunari would let him say anything. “Yeah, he would have totally had a high school garage band if his parents let him.”  
  
“I’m not really that good,” he says offhandedly. “It’s nothing to brag about.”  
  
“You sounded pretty good up there.” Ryota’s sincere about it and it makes him flush.  
  
Before he can mutter out his thanks, Kazunari throws an arm over his shoulder and leans in over the table. “You know,” he says, low in a stage whisper, “I bet Yukio would be down to do a duet with you.” He’s grinning and Yukio could kill him, which is probably why he’s being held in a chokehold as they speak. It doesn’t stop him from pinching his side in a punitive gesture. The bastard doesn’t even flinch.  
  
Ryota’s face freezes and so does Yukio’s breath. He can see it now: the tentative working acquaintance with Ryota falling over and collapsing like a house of cards in a tornado. _Goodbye, date. Goodbye, Clippers fan. Goodbye, tofu._ There’s a beat of silence, and he realizes he still has the plastic morning glory in his hair. _Goodbye, morning glory_ , he thinks, before reaching up to take it out.  
  
It’s to his surprise, then, that Ryota’s hand is suddenly on his. “You should keep it,” he says. “It looks nice.”  
  
His skin tingles where Ryota is touching him and it’s all that he can do to nod quickly, eyes threatening to bug out. “Okay,” he breathes, and that, too, stops when Ryota grins.  
  
“Ryota!”  
  
Reality crashes back around him and their boss is calling Ryota  up. “Oh, looks like it’s my turn, huh?” He looks a little sheepish at being called out, and gets up to take the stage. Before he leaves, he turns around and says: “By the way, about that duet. We should knock ‘em dead, next time.”  
  
“Sure thing,” he croaks out.  
  
Ryota ambles up to the mic and grins at the crowd. “I don’t know if I’ll be as good as Yukio, so everyone please go easy on the new guy, okay?”  
  
“Oh my god,” Kazunari mutters as Yukio stares up at Ryota. “The look on your face right now, dude.”  
  
He would make a snappy retort, if only he could tear his eyes away from the stage for even a second, but as it stands, he thinks he’ll deal with Kazunari later. The music has started playing, and he thinks he vaguely recognizes “Sugar Town.” Normally, he’d scoff at a song like that, but if it’s Ryota singing it...  
  
“I’ve got some troubles, but they won’t last. I’m gonna lay right down here in the grass, and pretty soon all my troubles will pass.”  
  
Yeah, it’s definitely better when it’s Ryota singing it. He’s got a good voice, and his smile and little gestures capture the carefree feel of the song perfectly. He’s even swaying his hips a little. Yukio feels a little hot under his collar, and he has to put his glass down quickly when Ryota aims a wink in his general direction or risk soaking his shirt with something harder to clean out than water. It isn’t as if Ryota was winking at him specifically, but still. Yukio touches the morning glory behind his ear.  
  
“If I had a million dollars or ten, I'd give to ya, world, and then you'd go away and let me spend my life in shoo-shoo-shoo, shoo-shoo-shoo, shoo-shoo, shoo-shoo, shoo-shoo Sugar Town.” Ryota finishes to loud applause. Before hopping down from the stage, he takes a little bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all night.”  
  
When he gets back to their table, Yukio claps and says, “You were great.” Kazunari echoes the compliment.  
  
“Thanks,” Ryota says. He’s flushed. Whether it’s from the drinks or the singing, Yukio can’t tell, but it’s adorable. He bends down and fiddles with the morning glory, fixing it more firmly behind Yukio’s ear. “We should really do that duet sometime soon,” he says quietly, his breath ghosting over Yukio’s ear.  
  
The red of Yukio’s face is probably clashing horribly with the morning glory right now. “Y-Yeah,” he stammers. “Definitely. Soon.”  
  
Ryota straightens up and slides back into his seat. “I’m glad we could all spend time together outside of work.”   
  
“Me too,” Yukio agrees, staring down into his drink with a little smile. Maybe he does owe Kazunari a thank you for dragging him out to this thing, after all. It’s worth it to have Ryota sitting across the table from him, exchanging insults with Kazunari about the Lakers and Clippers and turning to Yukio with a smile on his face every now and then, like he’s making sure that Yukio is still there. _Of course I am_ , Yukio wants to say. _You’re here. Where else would I be?_  
  
*  
  
The sad truth of the Hallmark Industry is that the most exciting place in their entire office is the copy room. Day after day, there’s all sorts of drama occurring in the twelve-by-ten room that holds all their paper, ink, and machines. One unfortunate incident involved Yukio walking past the room and overhearing a phone call about a notification of divorce via Facebook. It was awkward, but mostly for him. Lately, it’s Kazunari’s favorite piece of advice.  
  
“Go to the copy room, dude. It’s like magical pheromone-land in springtime in there,” he says. It’s a testament to Yukio’s long years of friendship with Kazunari that he doesn’t stab through his own hand with a pencil.  
  
“What.” Yukio doesn’t think he even _wants_  to know from what experience he speaks from. “Actually, no, not what. Don’t tell me.” Standing up, he takes the stack of papers on his desk in hand. “Need anything copied?”  
  
“Nah, I wouldn’t want to have to wait on you to return from puberty,” he replies absently, staring at the card on his own desk. Yukio could punch him.  
  
“See you soon, then.” He starts walking over to the copy room when he suddenly decides to change directions, making a detour to the design corner.  
  
It’s not that he’s ever actively _looked_  for where Ryota’s desk is, he just happens to know because it’s where his ex-coworker used to sit. Wiping his palms against his pant leg, he clears his throat. Ryota looks up at him and smiles. Yukio almost drops his papers. Really, he is the picture of nonchalance.  
  
“Need any copies?” he asks. Just to appear genuine and not at all like a slacker, he waves the stack in his hand.  
  
Ryota shakes his head. “I already went earlier. Thank you though.”  
  
“Oh, right. I, um, was just passing by and wanted to ask.” He skips the part where he explains why he’s all the way over here when his desk is closer to the copy room and says his goodbyes, turning to leave for his original destination.  
  
Pressing his ear to the door, he sighs in relief when he hears no troubled marriages on the other side, and lets the wooden door swing open. He sets the stack down on the workstation and warms up the copier, trying to reconfigure the settings on the machine. It’s finally set for automatic printing when he hears the door open behind him.  
  
“Hi,” he says conversationally, looking over to see who’s joined him.  
  
It’s Ryota, who closes the door shut before walking up to him. Yukio turns all the way around now, surprised to see him here when he’d just told him he didn’t need copies.  
  
“Did you forget something or--” He stops talking then, because Ryota presses him up against the copy machine and kisses him. Yukio freezes, wondering if he should pinch himself sometime soon. The thought lingers even after Ryota pulls away.  
  
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I forgot to do that.”  
  
“Oh.” He stares at him, trying to process the situation at hand. When he’s convinced that it’s not a dream, he leans up and presses his lips to Ryota’s, waiting for a wakeup call that doesn’t come. Instead, he feels Ryota lick at the seam of his mouth, sighing when he opens up.   
  
Ryota kisses him like he’s been waiting for it a long, long time--and then Yukio remembers the daily walks past his desk, the smiles, the invitation to lunch and the whole thing about doing a duet, and _oh_ , maybe he has been.   
  
“I’m an idiot,” he breathes when they finally pull apart for air.  
  
Ryota raises an eyebrow. “At least you’re a good kisser.”   
  
Yukio would feel more embarrassed, but he’s already made a fool out of himself more times than he can count, and Ryota is still here, with a look in his eye that says there’s more kissing in his future. He smiles and says, “So, that duet...”  
  
“I was thinking this Saturday night,” Ryota finishes for him. “Oh, and we can do tofu too, of course.”  
  
Yukio rolls his eyes and pulls Ryota in again by his tie. “Shut up,” he says, and kisses him as he laughs.   
  
*  
  
Ryota likes to sing Katy Perry. That’s one of the many things that Yukio learns about him. How he learned that involves the very first blowjob that Ryota gave him (right after their first date, because “Sorry, I’ve wanted to do this for _forever_  now”) and the lines “Let’s go all the way tonight. No regrets, just love,” as his pants are being pulled down. It was sort of horrifying, but also really, really great. Ryota looks like a porn star when he’s sucking Yukio off--well, he looks like a porn star whenever he’s doing anything remotely sensual. Like eating an ice cream cone, which Yukio is sure at one point in his life didn’t look so terribly suggestive. He just can’t remember it anymore, or what his life was like before Ryota.  
  
He still stutters and word vomits sometimes when he’s with Ryota, but at least now he knows that being a complete fool won’t chase Ryota off forever. And fortunately Ryota seems to think it’s cute, despite how mortified Yukio is whenever it happens.  
  
“You’re always so...serious around the office,” Ryota tells him. “But when I’m nearby you just choke up and do stuff like spit out water. It’s adorable.”    
  
“I’m a grown-ass man, not a kindergartener,” Yukio grumbles.  
  
“Oh, I know that.” The expression on Ryota’s face can’t be described as anything other than a leer. Yukio punches him in the shoulder. That’s another thing he’s learned: how to relax around Ryota and not analyze every single action to see if it will be acceptable.   
  
“I’m not some perfect idol. You don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not just to impress me,” he says.  
  
At first he’s a little dubious, because when he looks at Ryota, he can’t imagine that there’s an imperfection in him at all. Time, however, passes, and Yukio walks into the bathroom one morning and witnesses the Plastic Bottle Armageddon. He sees Ryota’s ties and scarves strewn over chairs and lamps and finds out that he likes to cry while watching John Hughes films on the weekends. He also likes to slip into the shower with Yukio and fervently suck him off, download porn onto Yukio’s computer, and make smoothies at 7AM.  
  
There are actually a lot of things about Ryota that drive him up the wall, but he finds that knowing these things doesn’t make him smile any less when he sees him, and it certainly doesn’t make him unhappy. So when he wakes up in the morning and sees Ryota still there, sleeping soundly, he kisses his temple, and makes sure to remember just how lucky he is that Ryota continues to want him too.  
  
After all, there are also things about him that make Yukio’s chest squeeze tight around his heart. Like when they watch Clippers’ games together and Ryota leans into him as they both cheer and make derisive commentary about the other team; and when the Clippers score during particularly close matches, Ryota grabs him and kisses him just as an excited shout is leaving Yukio’s lips. He loves coming home to all the flowers Ryota’s decorated the apartment with, too. He doesn’t know all their names, but he knows the colors: yellows and pinks and blues, all the vibrant colors that Ryota loves. (Their favorites, of course, are the sunflowers that Ryota always has in the center of the kitchen table.) And maybe most of all, he loves it when Ryota asks him to play a song on his guitar, because that’s when it’s only the two of them sitting on Yukio’s bed, surrounded by nothing but the sounds of music he’s making just for Ryota.   
  
 _I want a library full of our stories_ , he sings now, and not please, please, please. _A ship to keep our memories afloat. I wanna hit rewind, play back a hundred times the moment when our hearts aligned._  
  
*  
  
Yukio knows it’s going to end badly as soon as Ryota says, “Don’t you think it’s time I met your friends?”  
  
“Um, well,” he tries to hedge. “You’ve met Kazu.”  
  
“Kazu’s great,” Ryota says agreeably, sipping on his Very Berry Hibiscus. He’d dragged Yukio out of his apartment on a Saturday afternoon because, he explained, he had a craving for the drink. “But you have other friends too, right? I want to meet Shintarou. Oh, and Tetsuya! I heard he’s a kindergarten teacher. That’s so cute.”  
  
Yukio thinks about Tetsuya’s expressionless face. “Yes...cute.”  
  
“It could be a triple date if Tetsuya brings his boyfriend, too.” Ryota’s giving him his puppy eyes. “Please, Yukio?”  
  
Which is how Yukio finds himself at dinner with not only Ryota, but also Kazunari, Shintarou, Tetsuya, and Tetsuya’s boyfriend, Taiga. He’s giving his friends his best  _Don’t embarrass me or I’ll kick your asses later_  look, but he can tell it’s not working.   
  
When Ryota asks how they all know each other, Yukio gives his most subtle “Don’t” signal, which is promptly ignored when Shintarou says “High school.”  
  
The intrigued expression on Ryota’s face dispels any notions of Yukio coming out of this date with his dignity intact. Of all the people to start reminiscing about high school, he didn’t expect it to be Tetsuya, who answers all of Ryota’s questions about Yukio’s high school life.  
  
“What was he like?”  
  
“He was very nerdy.”  
  
“He had pretty terrible grades, actually.”  
  
“There was this one time that he was hung from the Bear statue outside the school.”  
  
“He was forced to join the talent show his junior year.”  
  
“Wait are you kidding? Yukio was a total jock,” Kazunari cuts in.  
  
“I think you’re mistaken.”  
  
“Did you tell him about that one time he tried to date a girl during senior year?”  
  
And like that, dinner becomes one long marathon wherein he relives high school through the eyes of his friends. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if only their audience wasn’t Ryota, who looked entirely too amused at his apparent misery.  
  
Yukio remembers his one and only girlfriend in high school--actually, in his life. Claire was a nice girl. She didn’t expect Yukio to give her his letterman’s jacket or spend every waking moment with her. She laughed at his jokes and was easy to date. It was a good experience. Until she tried to kiss him and Yukio fell over in the process, trying to avoid it. They broke up two days after. Thankfully, that last bit is omitted from the reminiscence and Yukio doesn’t have to dunk his head in a nearby fish tank to keep it from burning red.  
  
He thinks that story is the worst of it, but then Shintarou of all people says, “Yukio was in Model United Nations, too. We were in the club together.”   
  
“No way,” Ryota says, turning to Yukio. “You didn’t tell me that!”  
  
“That’s because I didn’t want to embarrass myself.”  
  
“Yeah, that is pretty nerdy,” Taiga so very helpfully puts in.   
  
Yukio glares at him. “Hey, stay out of this. We weren’t even in high school together!”  
  
Taiga just shrugs and says, “Still nerdy,” before popping another piece of steak into his mouth.   
  
“Yukio only joined because Shintarou made him,” Tetsuya says. “Of course, he also thought the president of M.U.N. was very handsome.”  
  
“A ‘dreamboat’,” Kazunari says. “He thought he was a ‘ _dreamboat_.’ Speaking of the president, there’s a really funny story about him, Yukio, and Shin-chan...”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Yukio and Shintarou say at the same time, but it’s too late. Kazunari’s already launching into the tale, and Ryota is his captivated audience.  
  
Tetsuya and Kazunari are right, of course. The only real reason that Yukio joined the Model United Nations club was because of Jason Li, the club’s president and founder. He actually couldn’t have cared less about emulating a bunch of nations from the UN, but when he’d seen him at a general meeting, he’d turned to Shintarou and said “yes” faster than he could make a three pointer at the bottom of the fourth quarter.  
  
For weeks it had seemed that his ridiculous crush would go by unnoticed, until he had met Jason in the school parking lot, waiting for their respective rides. A simple “hi” had spun into a full-blown conversation that Yukio had managed to keep flowing for a whole ten minutes. They said their goodbyes and he’d thought that was that, only to have Jason willingly accost him on the way to class the very next day. Maybe his devastating charm had been communicated after all and Jason saw what a catch he was. That’s what he thought at any rate, in all his faded schoolboy logic. There wasn’t anything to stop him from buying into such a misconception, after all, especially not when Jason said one day “Can you see me after school?”  
  
Of course, Yukio agreed to the afterschool rendezvous, where a note addressed to Shintarou was pressed into his hand.  
  
“Could you please deliver this to Shintarou?” he asked.  
  
It was all he could do to keep from screaming out “SHINTAROU? OF ALL THE PEOPLE IN THIS SCHOOL, YOU WANT ME TO DELIVER A LOVE LETTER TO SHINTAROU?” He managed a quick “Sure thing” before he was caught in an embarrassing hug with “Thank you”s booming in his ear. On the way home he read the letter out of petty revenge and found a hilariously awful attempt at poetry dedicated to Shintarou’s eyelashes. It made him feel a little bit better about the entire ordeal, save for the hug. He really would have rather brushed that experience off altogether.  
  
Speaking of experiences he would like to brush off, Yukio finds himself facing one right now, as Ryota’s practically doubled over in laughter, dessert long forgotten in favor of stories offered up by his personal walking, talking Pandora’s boxes.  
  
“How did Shintarou react to that letter?” Ryota asks.  
  
“He threw it away,” Yukio says, glad that the conversation has shifted away from him. “He had to avoid Jason for weeks, too, because he’d try to bring up the letter.”  
  
Shintarou pushes his glasses up with an exasperated sigh. “It was a horrible poem.”  
  
“That’s cold, Shin-chan. The poor dude looked like a kicked puppy,” Kazunari says.   
  
Tetsuya stares at him. “Kazu, he only looked like that after you kissed Shintarou in front of him.”  
  
Kazunari snuggles against Shintarou, the most self-satisfied grin on his face. “Oh, did I? I don’t remember doing that. That’s too bad. I guess he should have written a poem about Yukio’s eyelashes instead.”   
  
“ _Please_ , like I would want a poem like that.”  
  
Ryota says, “Oh really? Not even from a dreamboat like Jason Li?” When he sees the expression on Yukio’s face, he laughs and kisses his cheek. “I’m just kidding. I’m kind of glad it wasn’t you he liked, actually.”  
  
“So you could hear all about my embarrassment from these assholes who are supposed to be my friends?”  
  
Ryota has that mischievous look in his eyes that falls somewhere in between Yukio’s lists of “things that drive me up the wall” and “things that make my heart flip flop.” “Well, yes, there’s that. But what if Jason Li had confessed to you, and you both ended up going out? You could have been happily in love with him even now, and I would have been heartbroken.”   
  
Well, that one squarely falls in “things that make my heart flip flop.” “I...really don’t think that’s how it would have worked out.”  
  
“No?’  
  
“Yeah. He’s not you.”   
  
“Um, some of us are still trying to eat.” Leave it to Kazunari to ruin the moment.   
  
Yukio doesn’t let it bother him, though. “Shut up, Nari,” he says cheerfully, before he leans in and kisses Ryota. He thinks he hears Tetsuya say something about wanting to finish his dessert, and Taiga and Shintarou are undoubtedly making noises of disgust, but he tunes them all out in favor of Ryota’s lips against his, realer and better than his schoolboy dreams.   
  
(“You didn’t tell me Shintarou was a hot doctor,” Ryota says thoughtfully when they’re on the way back to Yukio’s apartment. It takes a Herculean effort on his part not to squawk at that.   
  
“He’s not even a real doctor yet,” he says.   
  
“Yes, but he’s on his way to becoming one, isn’t he?”  
  
Yukio really does squawk then. The same goes when Ryota goes on to talk about how Tetsuya is cuter than he’d imagined. He thinks that the look on his face is priceless, because Ryota laughs and kisses him then, telling him that he doesn’t need to be so horrified, that Yukio will always be his favorite.)  
  
*  
  
Sex with Ryota is amazing. It’s like someone turned back time and gave him the sexual drive of a high schooler all over again. Yukio swears that he hasn’t had this much sex in a single night since, well...ever. It’s satisfying to hear Ryota’s breath hitch and watch his face when he comes, open and honest, but it’s just as satisfying to lie there in bed afterwards, to feel the press of their skin as they talk about anything and everything together.  
  
Today they’re staring up at the chalkboard that encompasses his wall. That chalkboard is honestly a bit of a mess, covered in scribbles and chicken scratch, all ideas and excitement and no one to fulfill it with him.  
  
“Sooo, what’s that, exactly?” Ryota asks. He squints at the wall, trying to read it in the dimness of the room, curtained from the afternoon sun.  
  
Mouth twisting, Yukio waits a little before answering. “Plays,” he says. “Um, basketball plays.” As if he needed clarification.  
  
Ryota looks at him curiously and he feels his throat go a little tight because he hasn’t told anyone about this. Ever.   
  
“The whole thing about me being a jock in high school was kind of based in truth.” Scratching his head, he turns over and looks under his bed, searching for the volumes of his high school yearbooks. When he finds them, he blows off the dust and opens to the sports section, well-thumbed pages worn from days long past. He remembers obsessively looking through these, searching for the moment where he went wrong. He hasn’t found it yet.  
  
Ryota turns over, clearly interested in whatever history he has to share. “Yukio Kasamatsu, starting point guard of the Jim Burroughs Bears, has led the team to victory for the past three years, defying all expectations.” He looks up at Yukio, eyebrow quirked. “Defying all expectations?”   
  
“We were a mostly Asian team,” Yukio explains, “so nobody thought that we’d make it really far. The other teams always thought they’d have an easy time beating a couple of scrawny Asian guys. So did our own school, actually...” He scowls at the memory. “Assholes.”  
  
“Well, you really showed them, huh, tiger?”   
  
“Tiger?” Heat floods Yukio’s face. That’s the last nickname he would have chosen for himself--actually, he would have preferred it if there were no nicknames involved at all--but when it’s coming out of Ryota’s mouth like that...  
  
Ryota gives him a look from under hooded eyelids. “You heard me.” Yukio splutters, but Ryota just continues reading the article with a satisfied smile. “‘Now that he’s graduating, he’s leaving the team in the hands of fellow teammate and point guard Kazunari Takao and heading to USC to play for the Trojans. His dream is to eventually go pro.’ Wow, you didn’t tell me that you were a Trojan.”  
  
“Yeah, I got an athletic scholarship and an invitation to join their basketball team. It’s not something I really like talking about, though.” There aren’t any flattering ways to say, _I quit_ , or _I  gave up because it was too hard_.   
  
Ryota notices his mood and closes the yearbook. Laying his head on Yukio’s shoulder, he says, “I never told you where I went to college either, huh?”  
  
“Nope. Don’t tell me it was UCLA. Kazu still acts like it’s obligatory for us to be rivals because he and Shintarou went there.”  
  
“No, I went to Berkeley.”  
  
Yukio knows he’s doing a poor job concealing his disbelief, but it’s impossible to hide things from Ryota even if he tried. “Really? You don’t strike me as a treehugger hippie kind of guy.”   
  
Ryota laughs. “I’m not. I wasn’t much good at the studying, either. But I got an athletic scholarship like you, so I went for their basketball team. I’m surprised we never ran into each other. I know we played games against USC.”  
  
“Oh, that...” Yukio sighs. He might as well tell him. It’s in the past; he should have learned how to get over it long ago. “I was two years ahead of you, and I...quit basketball before my first year of college was even over.”  
  
“Huh? Why?” Ryota shifts so he’s straddling Yukio’s waist, staring down at him with an earnest confusion that makes Yukio’s heart ache. “Did you get injured?”  
  
How does he put into words all the fury and disappointment he felt back then? It’s not a raw wound anymore, but it still hurts. “I was...unprepared for how hard it was. It wasn’t just the level of basketball. I could have kept up with that, I think, but somehow it was worse than when I was in high school and nobody expected the Asian guy to be able to play basketball. I mean, in high school it was just some extracurricular activity that I happened to be good at, but in college people started asking if I was going to go pro. And when I said yes--” He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Ryota’s face as he talks about this dream he gave up. “When I said yes, they’d give me pitying looks, like I was delusional. It felt like everyone was watching me, waiting for me to screw up so they could say ‘Of course you were going to fail. There was no way you could have succeeded in the first place.’”  
  
“Yukio...”  
  
“I know it’s stupid, but back then it got to me. It was like I’d hit a block and I couldn’t play anymore. And everyone from the coach to my teammates always looked at me like it was a mistake that I was there at all. I was so pissed--at them, at myself, and I started believing that maybe I wasn’t cut out for it after all. So I quit.”  
  
Ryota sinks down, folding his hands against his chest to rest his chin on. He smiles a little at Yukio, before saying, “Funny how things happen sometimes.”  
  
Most people start to look uncomfortable around now, startlooking away and saying sorry. He knows Ryota isn’t most people, but that also wasn’t the response he expected. He raises a brow at him, not sure what he’s supposed to say to that.  
  
The smile on his face doesn’t fade. “Once upon a time, a Japanese boy was quietly drafted onto the Warriors, barely after his first semester in college.” His voice drops down low, like he’s sharing a secret. Yukio supposes that he is. “When he was drafted, he was so excited that he was on his way to accomplishing his dreams. He never got off the bench, though. And two weeks into his second season, his demand to be put into a losing game and off the bench was rejected, so he walked out of the gym.  
  
“And he lived happily ever after.”  
  
Yukio guesses this is what it must feel like to be told his own story, only much, much worse. “You were on the Warriors?” is the first thing that tumbles out of his mouth in an awed voice.  
  
“Yeah, number one benchwarmer,” he says. Then his smile turns sharp and bitter and all wrong, and it makes Yukio want to kiss it off his face. Ryota laughs, hiding his face in his chest. He strokes his back in lieu of empty platitudes. The laughter stops as he turns to look back up at Yukio. “No, it’s--I just thought I was over it now. That’s all.”  
  
“Yeah, I know the feeling,” he agrees softly, but doesn’t stop touching him.  
  
Ryota watches his face carefully before speaking. “They don’t know what they missed out on, huh?”  
  
He shrugs. Ryota can speak for himself, but the insecurity inside him still has yet to fade. “Guess not.”  
  
As if sensing his doubt, Ryota sits up again, hands on either side of his head. “You know what’s the most surprising out of everything I learned about you today?” he asks, mouth tilting up into a crooked grin.  
  
“What?” He pretends to frown.  
  
Ryota leans in close. “Your haircut in high school. I mean, that was a bad, bad decision on your part. Really, captain? I’m almost disappoin--”  
  
Yukio smothers a smile, flipping him over onto his back and grabbing his face to kiss him deep. When he tastes Ryota’s laughter in his mouth, he can’t imagine that he was ever in the same, sad situation as he was, no matter how long ago.  
  
*  
  
He’s probably doomed for romance. Or something to that effect, anyway. The way it happens is something like this: it’s 7AM and Ryota’s standing in the kitchen in nothing but his boxers, singing along to the Spice Girls while making a smoothie. Yukio walks in, eyes bleary and bloodshot, hair standing up at a ridiculous angle, no doubt. He takes a look at Ryota and accepts a cup of whatever strange concoction he’s whipped up that day. He’s learned three cups of ginger wheatgrass artichoke hearts ago not to ask.  
  
As usual, it tastes like fairy crack, and Yukio looks up at Ryota adoringly before he pulls a key out of his pocket and putting it on the counter.  
  
“It’s yours,” he says in response to the confused expression on his face.  
  
It’s the first time he’s seen Ryota at a loss for words. He’s oddly pleased that for once he’s managed to do something that causes that reaction in Ryota, instead of the other way around. “You can say no if you want to,” he teases, taking another sip of the smoothie.   
  
To his horror, Ryota’s eyes start welling up with tears. “You...”  
  
“Oh my god, what’s wrong? Do you really not want to?” Yukio’s seen Ryota cry before, but it’s only ever been over ridiculous movies like _The Breakfast Club_. He stops feeling so pleased: somehow he doesn’t think crying about an offer to move in with your boyfriend is a good sign.   
  
Then Ryota throws his arms around Yukio, and Yukio has to put down his cup before he spills the fairy crack over both of them. Ryota’s shoulders are shaking, and the front of Yukio’s shirt is starting to get very damp very quickly. “Hey, hey,” he says, hesitantly stroking Ryota’s back. “It’s going to be okay...” Of course, he can only assume it will be, since he still has no idea why there’s an armful of weeping Ryota in his arms at seven in the morning.   
  
Ryota lifts his face. There are still tears rolling down his cheeks, but he’s smiling, however shakily. “Of course I...want to move in,” he hiccups. He looks so ridiculous, crying in Yukio’s kitchen in his boxers, and Yukio loves him more than anything else. “I’m just crying because...I’m really happy.”  
  
“...oh.” Relief washes over him as he wipes Ryota’s tears away with his thumbs. “So that’s a yes?”  
  
Ryota nods. He kisses Yukio. “Yeah,” he breathes against his lips. “I’ll move in with you, Yukio Kasamatsu.”   
  
Maybe he’s doomed for romance, but this is a more than acceptable substitute, he thinks as Ryota starts trailing kisses down his chest and sinking down to his knees. He looks up at Yukio and grins cheekily. “Housewarming gift, tiger.”   
  
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Yukio wonders, but then Ryota’s pulling his boxers down and taking his cock into his mouth, and it doesn’t really matter anymore.  _Yeah_ , he thinks, tangling his hands in Ryota’s hair. _This is all I need_.  
  
*  
  
“Can people really do that?” Yukio asks, head tilting to the side. He would be more concerned, if Ryota weren’t sitting by him, running his fingers up and down his arm.  
  
One of the first things that they do with the television after Ryota moves in is christen the living room by watching gay pornography on his big screen. What started out as doubt soon became a Very Good Idea. Ryota has an arm around him, making it easy for him to lean into his side and listen for what makes his breath hitch. He commits these things to memory for later use. On the flip side, it also makes it very easy for them to laugh together at the bad porn lines and lift a brow when someone on screen clearly defies the laws of physics.  
  
Ryota turns to him and whispers into his ear. “Do you want to find out?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, letting Ryota push him down onto his back. He looks up at Ryota, whose mouth quirks in a familiar way that makes his pulse jump. Leaning down, he kisses Yukio’s neck, sucks on the skin there and Yukio scrabbles for his hips.  
  
They christen the couch by having sex on it, too.  
  
When they aren’t trying to find new and creative places to have sex, they’re usually arguing over chore division. Yukio can do laundry, but vacuuming is a no-go. Ryota will dust, but cooking is the 8th Wonder of this world that he will never understand. Ryota hates dishes, so does he. They agree on a rock-paper-scissors system that is usually overruled by Ryota bargaining with blow jobs.  
  
It isn’t perfect, because sometimes Ryota will walk into the room and ask him if he has grey hairs and Yukio will ask him what’s wrong with having grey hairs instead of reassuring him to the contrary. And sometimes Yukio will need a moment alone, one that he can’t get in between work and dinner and waking up to do it all over again. At the end of the day, though, he knows that he’s happy, can feel it in the way it’s comfortable to sit in silence with Ryota, or listen to him talk on end regarding subjects that Yukio knows absolutely nothing about. Other times, Ryota will lie down and put his head into his lap and listen to him read articles by his favorite sports journalist, Satsuki Momoi.  
  
Maybe that’s why he likes to ignore the holes in the story, like the mail that Ryota doesn’t open in the mornings, which he assumes is junk mail. That is, until he sees it on his desk a week later, still left unopened, saved for later reading. He ignores the voice in the back of his head, telling him that there’s something that needs to be said here. Yukio turns a blind eye, doesn’t think about it until Ryota looks at him over breakfast one morning, asking if he saw the envelopes sitting on his desk.  
  
“It’s your mail. I wasn’t going to pry,” he answers easily.  
  
He almost looks disappointed. “Oh, well...” Ryota stares down at his plate, before he looks him in the eye. “I was thinking of going back to the pros.”  
  
What can he say to that? “I’ll support you”? “Good luck”? “Don’t go”?   
  
“I was wondering...if you wanted to go with me.”   
  
“Ryota, I...” Part of him wants to say “yes,” but it’s been buried for so long underneath insecurity and regrets that the word doesn’t make it out of his mouth. “Can’t,” he finishes instead. “I can’t. Why are you thinking about this now?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be thinking about this now?” His expression turns hard, like he’d really expected Yukio to say yes. “If there’s ever a time to be thinking about it, it’s right now.”  
  
“My time to think about this passed a long time ago,” he says, eggs like ash in his mouth.  
  
He gives him a look, like he thinks he’s blowing things out of proportion. Perhaps he is, but it doesn’t change the facts: he failed the first time, and there is absolutely nothing to recommend him the second time around, nearly a decade older.  
  
“You’re not even two years older than I am.”  
  
“I was never a contender for the Warriors.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he wonders when his pile of regrets will cease to grow.  
  
Apparently he won’t find out today, because Ryota’s frowning now, mouth set in a firm line. “You could have been,” he says, voice deceivingly calm. “But I guess you won’t know now.”  
  
His throat tightens. “Yeah, I guess I won’t,” he agrees.   
  
“Is that all you’re going to say?” His calm slips out from his grip and Yukio can’t watch.  
  
He slides his chair back, winces at the loud scrape. “I need some air.” He makes the mistake of looking at Ryota’s face, seeing the hurt there. “I just...I can’t do this right now,” he says, before he’s walking out the door. Ryota doesn’t stop him.  
  
*  
  
It’s been eight months and counting. Yukio tries not to dwell on this as he’s driving to the gym, because it’s only going to further contribute to his bad mood. Sadly, he and L.A. traffic were never meant to be anything but bitter enemies, so by the time he’s halfway to the gym he’s already in what Kazunari calls his “Category 9 Rage of the Road Gods.”  
  
“Come on,” he shouts at the driver in front of him, hitting the horn repeatedly. “Drive faster or get off the road, you geriatric!”  
  
If it’s not geriatrics driving twenty miles below the speed limit, then it’s assholes who ignore his signaling and don’t let him change lanes. Fucking kids and their cell phones. “You can talk to your girlfriend when you’ve parked!” he yells at the Mercedes Benz that’s the current target of his rage. He’s going to be late to his appointment with Riko, which means extra squats in the pool. He’ll be lucky if he can move after that workout, let alone drive back home.  
  
Shuddering, he practically sprints into the gym, praying Riko’s watch is at least five minutes behind his. He pushes open the pool door and is surprised by a few things: firstly, the fact that he isn’t being pulled into a chokehold by one Riko Aida; secondly, that Riko Aida is directing her frown at someone who is not him; thirdly, that said someone is another woman, not clad in swimwear, sidling decidedly closer towards Riko.  
  
“Um...” he says intelligently. “Am I interrupting something?”  
  
The woman stands up and smiles a sunny smile. “You must be Yukio.”  
  
He can feel his expression turn suspicious. “Yes?”  
  
Her smile doesn’t fade. “You should come here.” _What_. “You’re late for our interview.”  
  
“Stop bothering him, Satsuki. He’s still in training!” Riko cuts in irritably.  
  
She huffs, looking put upon. “I came all this way for an interview. I can’t just _leave_  before I get one.” The two start bickering again, Riko clearly engrossed in kicking out their guest.  
  
Satsuki... No way. “Are you Satsuki Momoi?” he asks. Riko is on first name basis with Satsuki Momoi, his favorite sports writer. The sky is raining chickens.  
  
“Yeah!” she says, ignoring Riko’s demands for her to come back another time. Yukio stares for a long time.  
  
“Why do you want to intervi--ARGH!” Riko grabs his ear and pulls him in the direction of the pool. Rubbing his ear, Yukio glares once before he pulls off his clothes and jumps in. The routine starts with the shriek of Riko’s whistle, and he’s hurled headfirst into a world of hurt.  
  
The whistle blows again. Dunk. Squat. Jump. Rinse. Repeat.  
  
He looks up and sees Satsuki perched at the edge of the pool. She has a pen and clipboard and looks eager to have this interview.  
  
“So, Yukio, how is--”  
  
Dunk. The rush of water fills his ears. Squat. Jump.  
  
“--shape?”  
  
He hears about half of what she asked, and the rest is lost to the depths of the pool. Riko yells out “Break!” and he stops.  
  
“Could you repeat that?” he asks, breathless.  
  
She nods agreeably. “How is getting back into shape?”  
  
“Like hell,” he answers immediately, shaking out his shoulders.  
  
There’s a laugh. “I’m doing an article on Asian American basketball athletes,” she explains. It doesn’t prepare him at all for the next question she has. “I heard that Ryota Kise is also planning on making a comeback to the pros. Any comments?”  
  
All the air in his lungs freeze and he feels a little like he’s drowning in the 5 foot shallow end of the pool. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, deflect with something acceptably glib and move on, but he comes up with nothing.  
  
“Riko. I’ve had enough of a break. Let’s go,” he says quietly. He waits for the whistle and happily sinks back into the water, where the smell of chlorine and ache in his muscles consumes him, leaving no thought for Ryota Kise or Satsuki Momoi or even Yukio Kasamatsu. It’s just his body and the water now, waging war to see who comes out intact.  
  
It’s only a small reprieve when he survives the pool and Riko calls for five. He wonders about Ryota. Is he going through similar training? _P robably_. Is he doing better than Yukio is? _Likely_. Does it hurt this much for him too? ...well, he doesn’t really have time to dwell on that. Biting on the inside of his cheek, he rubs at his eyes and falls onto his back to stare up at the ceiling.  
  
If he lets himself get lost in the echoes of the pool, he can almost imagine that he isn’t doing this alone, and that when he goes home there will be a warm welcome and a kiss and dinner and his life stretching out before him.  
  
*  
  
In the end, Ryota left Yukio’s life with considerably less fanfare than he’d entered it. They didn’t talk about the pros after Yukio walked out of the room, but Ryota started following a stricter workout routine, and Yukio found searches for healthy diets and other ways to get back into shape in his internet history that he pretended he didn’t see. They still went to work together, came home together, and did all the other everyday things that marked their daily life. They still laughed together, too, and shared casual touches and kisses, because Ryota was Ryota no matter what, and Yukio thought he might be able to live like this, too.  
  
He felt like he was waiting for something, though, and it happened one night when he walked into the bedroom and saw Ryota standing in front of the chalkboard, staring up at the plays.   
  
“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to sound casual.  
  
“Nothing. Just looking.” Ryota flopped down onto the bed, lying spread-eagled across it. Yukio had to push Ryota around to make some room for himself; it was a game Ryota liked to play with him, and it usually ended with their clothes strewn across the room, but tonight he let Yukio wrap his arms around him with minimal wriggling.  
  
“Those are some good plays, captain,” he said.   
  
“I didn’t lead the Jim Burroughs Bears to victory just by being good-looking, you know.”  
  
“Not with that haircut you didn’t.”   
  
Yukio scowled at him, and he laughed. They didn’t talk for a couple of minutes then, just shared the silence until Ryota said, “I got in contact with an old friend from Berkeley. He works as a sports trainer now. He said he’d be able to help me get back in shape for the pros.”  
  
“That’s good,” Yukio said carefully. “Is he living in L.A.?”  
  
“No, he’s...he lives in San Francisco.”  
  
“Oh. I see.”  
  
“Yeah.” Ryota bit his lip. “So, um, I’d probably have to move to San Francisco for a while...”  
  
 _Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go_.  “Do you have anywhere to stay?” He sounded calm, even to himself.   
  
“Yeah, I called a couple of other friends and they said I could stay with them until I find my own apartment.”  
  
So Ryota had already made his plans. Yukio smiled, even though he wanted to grab Ryota by the shoulders and tell him to stay. “I guess you’ll be moving out of here then, huh? It’s going to be weird not having you around.”   
  
For some reason, Ryota looked hurt. “I guess so...”  
  
“Hey, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing. I was just thinking.” Ryota lowered his eyes. The sudden refusal to make eye contact with Yukio made him uneasy. “I was just thinking that--that I don’t want you to have to wait for me.”  
  
Oh. Right. This was also something that they had to do: cut ties and go their separate ways, learn to be without each other again. Years from now, Yukio would look back on this moment and wish that he’d done anything else but give a half-hearted smile and say “Yeah, that’s fine. I don’t want to be the one holding you back.”  
  
In fact, it didn’t even take years, and that might have been the most pathetic part. All it took was a matter of seconds, when Ryota looked up at him in surprise, and Yukio knew he had topped off everything he had ever regretted in his life.  
  
“Oh...I--yeah. If that’s what you want,” he answered. He didn’t smile then. Neither did Yukio.  
  
*  
  
Yukio’s frustrated at the end of every one of Riko’s workouts. He’d thought he was in relatively good shape for someone who wasn’t playing sports regularly, but every appointment with Riko inevitably ends in him slumped against the lockers, trying to convince his legs that it’s not that far of a walk to the parking lot.   
  
“You haven’t played any kind of professional basketball in almost seven years,” Riko tells him when he finishes the pool exercises. “What did you expect, that you’d train for a few weeks and then waltz into the pros?”  
  
“No,” Yukio’s forced to say.   
  
Riko’s face softens. “Well, you’re making good progress, and you show up to all our appointments. It’s not impossible.” When he fails to show any enthusiasm, she scowls and says, “I already got one idiot back into shape, and he had a back injury.”  
  
Yukio wonders if he’s really up to the task. The “idiot” in question is none other than Tetsuya’s unwitting boyfriend, Taiga. He’s known Taiga for a while, but never thought that he would be such a monster. It had been his mistake to underestimate him when Kazunari had wheedled him into coming over for their weekly basketball games (“I really really _really_  don’t want to play Yukio one-on-one today.”). In a one-on-one game, Yukio was beat out in a race of stamina, as Taiga kept running, past the point where Yukio found himself collapsed on the side of the court, not able to run anymore.  
  
“You’re...unreal....” he gasped out, pouring water over himself.  
  
“Ha.” Taiga snorted. “You’re just the one who’s got no stamina,” he said, shooting another free throw. Yukio would have punched him if he could trust his body not to fail him again.  
  
A shadow fell over him, and he saw that the owner was Kazunari, who looked down at him and smiled. “Guess that was tougher than you thought it’d be, huh?” he asked.  
  
“Stick a sock in it,” he muttered in response, taking the towel he handed him anyway.   
  
He was cheerily ignored and Kazunari looked at him seriously then, brow furrowed. “What are you doing, Yukio?”  
  
The question hit him square in the mouth. He chose to sidestep it altogether, letting his mouth draw up in a grin. “What do you mean? I’m kinda dying here, Kazu.”  
  
He got a look for that. One that said “Really?” “What are you still doing here?”  
  
“Still not making sense.”  
  
Taiga threw the ball to Kazunari, who bounced it off Yukio’s forehead.  
  
“Ow!” Yukio clutched his forehead and leaped up, trying to grab Kazunari and strangle him. “What the hell was that for?”  
  
“Oh, looks like pain still gets through your head, even if thoughts don’t,” Kazunari said, grinning. “Don’t make me give you a ‘go after him’ speech now.” The grin on his face didn’t fade away.  
  
“What.” He stared. Either his ears were malfunctioning or the world was playing one big joke at his expense.  
  
“Go get ‘im, tiger,” he said, looking very pleased with himself.  
  
“Ugh, I’m going to barf.” To emphasize the point, he buried his head in his hands, hoping if he closed his eyes long enough this would all have been a bad, bad dream.  
  
Kazunari was still there when he opened his eyes. “...you’re not serious,” he said.  
  
He gave a shrug. “ _I’m_  tired of seeing you mope around. You miss Ryota, I get it. I know it’s really hard. But I can’t stand it that you’re moping when you could have followed him.”  
  
“What do you know?” he muttered. “Shintarou’s still giving you googly eyes every day, isn’t he?”  
  
He caught the basketball this time when Kazunari threw it at him. “I guess I don’t know, but I do know you’re an eyesore. Letting Taiga kick your ass is pretty pathetic.”  
  
“He’s a monster!”  
  
“And what are you, a stuffed bear?” He wasn’t smiling then. “You didn’t lead us to nationals by sitting around and moping.”   
  
He didn’t notice Taiga coming up behind him, so it was easy for the other man to steal the ball and bounce it off the back of his head. “You want to know why I have more stamina than you?”   
  
“Ow, _fuck_. Because you’re a firefighter? I don’t know.”  
  
“Yeah, but that’s not what I’m saying. You remember when I injured my back a year ago?”  
  
“What, when you were a dumbass and ran into a burning building by yourself?” Yukio remembers, mostly because it was the one and only time he saw Tetsuya anything other than calm. Taiga had been in the hospital for a while, and afterwards he’d had to do physical therapy.  
  
“Yeah, and afterwards I descended into hell with my physical therapist.” The thing was that he didn’t look like he was kidding. “Her name is Riko Aida and she won’t baby you for shit.”  
  
Yukio’s eyebrows shot up, and with that he was referred to Riko.  
  
“Taiga told me about you.” He wasn’t kidding when he said she was a hardass.  
  
There was a silence. “Um, yeah.”  
  
“I don’t take just anyone.” She gave him a level look, started sizing him up. “Why do you want to train with me?”  
  
 _Because I’m a loser and my boyfriend broke up with me and now I’m going through a quarter life crisis_.  He waffled, stared down at his feet as he looked for an acceptable answer. “I...want to go to the pros.”  
  
“So?” For a person barely five foot four, she knew how to stare someone down.  
  
“So...” Was there some sort of test for this? Was it like ‘answer the riddle, young grasshopper, and all your questions will be answered’? “I want you to train me.”  
  
“Do you really want to go to the pros?” she asked. Her voice left no room for argument, nonsense, or bullshit. “Don’t waste my time or what I put Taiga through is going to sound like playtime with kindergarteners.”   
  
Yukio swallowed. What was he doing, taking advice from dumbasses like Kazunari and Taiga? Going pros was almost impossible at his age. Most athletes retired by their early thirties, and he was already twenty-five. Maybe all those times they’d bounced the basketball off his head had gotten to him, made him think that he could put himself through hell, and for what? Just to fail again?  
  
He was still better at basketball than most guys his age. He could kick Kazunari’s ass, and Kazunari, along with Shintarou, had been the one who’d led the high school team to victory after he graduated. That was enough. Or it _should_  have been, before Ryota started talking about old dreams and reminded him that he hadn’t gotten over the need to prove that he could make it.  
  
Yukio was in way over his head. He didn’t even have a goal in mind. All he could think for the past few weeks had been “Ryota Ryota Ryota” and stare up at the plays on his wall. What did he hope to accomplish by doing this? Did he think that he was going to ride into a gym on horseback and sweep Ryota off his feet and live happily ever after? That was ridiculous, even for him. Compared to that, going for the pros again--well, it still wasn’t easy, but it was possible, no matter how slim the chances.  
  
“Well? Riko demanded. “I need an answer now, or I’m going to kick you out of the gym.”  
  
Maybe life had been good before Ryota left, but it hadn’t been _enough_. Yukio squared his shoulders and looked Riko in the eye when he said, “I want to make it.”  
  
*  
  
Yukio’s knees feel like jelly and he wants to collapse against the steering wheel and magically will the car back home. Unfortunately, much like the rest of his life, it doesn’t do what he wants it to. He isn’t sure what he was thinking when he’d agreed to Riko’s conditions: morning workout, after work exercises, evening stretches, and a diet menu that he’s expected to keep up with.  
  
The answer is probably that he wasn’t, and now he’s collapsed against his steering wheel, reaching for the stereo. The quiet undertones of Morrissey’s voice fill up the car, and he tries not to think about where he is right now. Because aside from this, everything is normal. Yukio goes to work, trades jabs with Kazunari, listens to the news, comes back home and eats dinner. And it’s like nothing has changed in the past year of his life.  
  
He’ll unlock his door, go inside, and grope for the light switch on the wall. He’ll sit in the middle of the couch and spread out and watch something on the TV, and he can watch whatever he wants. He won’t even have to change the channels or fight for the remote. And when he’s done with dinner, he’ll only have one set of dishes to do.  
  
It’s great. Honest. It’s as though someone hit the reset button and now his life is back to normal, and everything before was just one long dream. All of that is just baggage now, something to hold him back from the pro-leagues, a distraction that he doesn’t need anymore. That was probably all part of a detour in his life and now he’s back on the right track.  
  
None of that explains why he’s sitting in his car, slumped over, listening to the Smiths and wondering why he doesn’t feel any better even with Morrissey’s voice singing about his troubles. Shutting off the sound system, he puts his car into ignition and makes the drive home, hoping that his legs don’t give out on him before he gets there.  
  
When he finally does weave his way through Los Angeles traffic, it takes an inordinate amount of time for him to walk back to his doorstep. The stairs feel like a journey in and of itself, and Yukio thinks that he’s definitely not going to be able to walk to the copier tomorrow. Maybe he’ll ask Kazunari. Again. He knows he understands.  
  
Unlocking the door, he wonders if Riko will notice if he skips out on the artichoke shakes tonight and goes for a cheeseburger instead. He misses those. There’s a split second where he actually thinks about it, physically turns around to have his petty act of defiance--although who he’s trying to defy, he’s not even sure.  
  
Then he sees him, standing there at the foot of the stairs. Neither of them say anything, and Yukio starts to wonder if he’s making all of this up. There is no Ryota Kise standing in front of his house, and he’s not actually awake, and any minute now he’ll wake up in his bed alone and stare up at his wall.  
  
“Hi.” Not-Ryota stands there some more, looking hesitant to do much else.  
  
Yukio stares. “This...isn’t happening,” he says, before he finishes opening his door and walks in, closing it behind him.  
  
He hears knocking as soon as the door closes shut.  
  
“These are trying times for you, Yukio Kasamatsu,” he whispers, and hangs his jacket on the rack. He looks through the peephole again, and--not-Ryota is still there. Shit.  
  
Instinct takes over his better sense as he opens the door again. Ryota is...yes, that’s definitely Ryota, standing there in front of him. On his welcome mat. He needs to get rid of that welcome mat. No one is welcome. Especially not Ryota.  
  
“We’restillbrokenup” is the first thing he blurts out. And upon realizing exactly _what he just said_ , he slams the door shut--half out of mortification, half out of a complete blank on what else to say--right into Ryota’s face.  
  
*  
  
He wakes up to thirty missed calls and almost as many voicemails. Groaning, he turns over and says something incomprehensible into his pillow. Nonetheless, Yukio spends time lying there in bed, listening to all of them.  
  
“I’m sorry that was unexpected--”  
  
“That was probably pretty weird, huh?”  
  
“Are you doing okay?”  
  
“I’M SORRY--”  
  
“I miss you.”  
  
“I lo--I’ll talk to you later.”  
  
It isn’t surprising that he feels no better after the ordeal. The first thing he does is call Kazunari. He regrets it immediately when he hears roosters crowing where he’s supposed to hear a dial tone. Kazunari thinks he’s a laugh riot. Thankfully, it barely takes one ring before he picks up.  
  
“Yo,” he says.  
  
“What do I do?”  
  
He’s about to launch into an explanation, until he hears laughter on the other end. Yukio stays on the line, frowning at his ceiling.  
  
“Was expecting you to call.”  
  
That explains exactly nothing, and he wants to reach through the receiver and pull on Kazunari’s ear. “Um.”  
  
“Your boyfriend is here.”  
  
Oh, okay. At least Kazunari has a reason to be so damn amused right now. Running a hand down his face, he sits up. “I--uh, thanks. Is he...okay?”  
  
“Whoa, dude, you don’t have to  _thank  me_,” he says. “He was my friend too, you know.” Yukio wants to respond, but he keeps talking. “What you _should_  thank me for is for listening to him record all those voicemails. I mean, are you freaking serious, man? It was like listening to the voice recording department only a million times worse--”  
  
Ryota is at Kazunari’s house. He’s safe. The panic that was bubbling up inside him fades marginally, and he lets out a breath of relief that he didn’t know he was holding in. “How long has he been back?”  
  
“Since yesterday. He showed up at our apartment and said he didn’t have anywhere else to go.”  
  
He winces, remembering how he’d shut the door on Ryota’s face yesterday. “He’s okay now, right? What’s he doing?”  
  
“Dude, what am I, a messenger hawk? If you want to know you should come over and talk to him yourself. While you’re at it, take him home, too, because he’s starting to drive Shin-chan up the wall.”  
  
If anyone was being driven up the wall, it was probably Ryota. Nobody could live with Kazunari and Shintaro without wanting to throw up several times a day, especially at meals. Yukio knows from experience. Even so, he doesn’t know if he’s up to seeing Ryota again, let alone talk to him. “I...”  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re busy. I know you don’t do anything except train, go to work, train, go home and cry to the Smiths.”  
  
“Shut up, the Smiths are a classic,” Yukio says, trying to deflect.   
  
“Look, I don’t mind Ryota staying with us, because he’s my friend and he doesn’t have anywhere else to stay right now. But I’m not going to put up with this bullshit where you try to avoid him and then mope because he’s not around. Get your shit together, Yukio, or I’ll tell Taiga to tell Riko to triple your workout load.”  
  
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?”  
  
“You’re welcome. So come talk to him and make up, or tell him it’s over and move on with your life. Bye, Yukio.” He hangs up before Yukio can call him some more unflattering names.  
  
Yukio doesn’t have an appointment with Riko today, but that doesn’t mean he can’t train. It’s better than sitting at home anyway. Kazunari’s an asshole, but he’s right: Yukio really doesn’t have anything else to do except play the Smiths on his guitar and sing along to them. He rolls out of bed to brush his teeth. He can go jogging; it might not take up the entire day, but at least it’s one or two hours where he can focus on nothing except his feet pounding the pavement.  
  
The Smiths might be the best for when he’s sad, but they’re not exactly jogging music. Turning up his playlist of Top 40 Hits, he wills himself not to think about anything except how breathless he gets when he hits the two mile mark. He’s breathing hard when he finally turns the corner back to his building, but at least he doesn’t feel like collapsing on the sidewalk until someone can carry him home. He went jogging on the weekends even before he started training with Riko; it’s not easy, but it’s more than doable.   
  
This time, when he sees Ryota sitting on the steps, he knows he’s real.   
  
“Hi,” Ryota says, as Yukio pulls his earbuds out and stares at him. There’s a bouquet of morning glories clutched in his hands. “Do you still listen to that jogging playlist I made for you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Yukio says before he can help himself. “Katy Perry is still crap, but it’s good for running.”  
  
Ryota stands up and walks towards him. “I heard you’ve been training to go to the pros.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I figured life would be boring if I just stuck to beating Kazu every weekend. There are bigger fish out there.”  
  
“Yeah?” Ryota’s right in front of him now, close enough that Yukio can smell the familiar citrusy scent. He plucks one of the morning glories out of the bouquet and tucks it behind Yukio’s ear, the same way he had so long ago. “I’m sure you can get them. You’re looking good, tiger.”  
  
If he ever thought that he was over Ryota, now is the time that all such delusions are dispelled. It’s almost like the first time, only way, _way_  worse, because he’s disgusting and sweaty and he just ran five miles around town and Ryota’s looking at him earnestly, like he can’t think of any other place he’d rather be.  
  
“I missed you too,” he blurts, and then the words keep tumbling out, and for once, he lets them. “I thought I’d be angry with you but I’m not, I’m just glad that you’re back. I really, really missed you and I love you. You’re the center of everything in my world, and it’s so fucking embarrassing, but it’s true. Please--” His voice cracks. “Don’t leave me again.”  
  
“Oh...” Ryota breathes out. “You’re...” He stops talking and pulls him into a hug.  
  
“H-Hey, I’m all sweaty.” He nudges his shoulder, tries to push him off.  
  
It doesn’t deter him, apparently, because he doesn’t let go, just buries his face into his neck. “Thank god. I--” Yukio pats his shoulder. “I was so worried that you wouldn’t...” And here come the waterworks. God, he’s missed this, missed the way he has to wipe away Ryota’s tears, give up another shirt to the laundry basket, tell him that it will be okay.  
  
He pulls on his sleeve. “Hey, let’s go inside,” he says softly, and takes Ryota’s hand in his own.  
  
They open the door together, hang up their jackets and smile at each other.  
  
“We’re home,” he announces, to no one in particular.  
  
*  
  
Letting Ryota push him onto the bed is a good idea. It’s also a good idea to watch him when he pulls down his pants and takes Yukio’s cock into his hand, giving it a few lazy strokes. “You’re still a tease,” Yukio groans, his hips thrusting up.  
  
“Maybe you’re just impatient,” he says laughingly. He’s teasing him some more before he’s not, and then he’s swallowing him down.  
  
Yukio knows what Ryota likes, so he doesn’t hesitate to thrust up, working into a steady rhythm as he fucks Ryota’s mouth. He cards a hand into his hair, fists and listens to him _moan_ around him. His mouth is hot and wet, and when he hollows his cheeks and sucks, Yukio stops thinking. It’s good, really good, better than how he remembers it being.  
  
“Ryota,” he gasps.  
  
Ryota hums and looks up at him through his lashes. Admittedly, Yukio hasn’t lived for very long, but he’s sure that Ryota’s mouth wrapped around his cock is the most obscene thing he’s ever seen, made doubly obscene by the fact that it’s Ryota, whom Yukio couldn’t have imagined enjoying this so much before they got together and he found out otherwise. He closes his eyes again, brow furrowing in concentration--as if he needs to give forth any amount of effort to make Yukio moan into his pillow.  
  
It’s certainly not the first time he’s seen Ryota like this. It’s not even the tenth or twentieth time that he’s seen him like this, but he’s never gotten over how pliant he goes against him, how willing he is to be _u sed_ by him, to have his hair yanked and his mouth fucked. He’ll probably never get over it, because Ryota might get off on being handled roughly, but he also trusts Yukio, of all people, enough to let him do this.  
  
“Wait.” He pushes on his shoulder, tries to give ample warning, but Ryota pays him no mind, doesn’t let up at all. Instead he runs the flat of his tongue against his slit and looks up at him, eyes dark, pupils blown.  
  
Yukio comes with a cry, and Ryota swallows eagerly before he pulls off of him. There’s a smile on his face that can’t be described as anything except satisfied. _He’s_ satisfied. Yukio would laugh if he had any breath left.  
  
“Come here,” he says, tugging Ryota up and onto the bed with him. He kisses him hard on the mouth.   
  
“Did I do good?” he asks.  
  
Yukio gives him a look. “Isn’t it below you to fish for compliments?”  
  
Ryota snorts. “No.” He wraps his arms around him and buries his nose in his hair. There’s a comfortable silence, one they slip back into easily. Yukio traces patterns into Ryota’s hands, looks at the calluses on his thumb and kisses them.  
  
“Why did you come back?” He pauses. “I mean, not that I’m not happy!” Step one to making up with your boyfriend whom you haven’t seen in eight months: proceed to put foot into mouth.   
  
When Ryota looks away, he feels uneasiness settle in. Yukio starts coming up with a list of apologies, hoping one will be enough.  
  
“I...” Ryota pauses. “I never wanted us to break up. I wanted us to stay together, even if it had to be long distance. I just didn’t know if you wanted to.”   
  
Yukio sits up and stares. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. “You...what.” It’s not even fair how often he’s left asking that. “You made plans and told me that you didn’t want me to have to wait for you!”  
  
“I didn’t want you to!” Ryota sits up now, too. “It didn’t mean that I wanted for us to break up, but when you said that it was fine--that was...you were breaking up with me, weren’t you?” There’s still uncertainty in his expression.  
  
This is not happening to him. “I thought _y ou_ were the one who was doing the breaking up,” he mutters, feeling extremely stupid. “So for eight months, we...”  
  
“Could have been having phone sex,” Ryota finishes for him, wonderingly.   
  
Yukio punches his shoulder. “ _Together_. I meant we could have been _together_. Do you only think about sex?”  
  
“No, I also think about basketball. And you.” He almost looks sheepish. “And I did just give you a mindblowing orgasm like five minutes ago.”  
  
The grin on his face is entirely too cheeky for Yukio’s liking. He tells him so by pushing him onto his back and mirroring that grin with his own. “Well I guess I have to return the favor now, don’t I?”  
  
“I’m open to negotiations,” he says, pushing Yukio’s shirt up. He whistles softly, and Yukio is embarrassed to find that it makes him blush. “Someone’s been working out.”   
  
Yukio grabs his wrists and pins them against the mattress. “I don’t think you’re in a position to bargain.”  
  
“Are you going to discipline me then, captain?” he asks, rolling his hips meaningfully.  
  
He shivers. “Maybe if you’re good,” he breathes, leaning down to suck on his throat.  
  
“I thought the point of being disciplined was that I’m not being good.”  
  
“Oh, you’re right. I guess we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?” Yukio slips a hand under his shirt and pinches a nipple. Ryota closes his eyes, arches his back, and  _whines_.   
  
“Fuck me,” he says, and Yukio’s never been able to say “no” to him, so he leans over to grab the lube and a condom from the bedside drawer.   
  
Ryota wriggles out of his clothes, and before Yukio can even say anything, he gets on his elbows and knees. The sight never fails to make his mouth run dry, and it takes him a minute before he can say “No, I want you on your back.”  
  
He wordlessly complies, turning over onto his back and looking up at him impatiently. “The invitation is good immediately. As in _right now_ ,” he says.  
  
“Impatient is a good look on you,” he muses, before he pushes one slick finger inside him. Ryota grinds down on his finger, an implicit demand for _more_. And Yukio gives it to him, pushing another finger inside and crooking both of them.   
  
“Yukio.” His eyes are narrowed. “It’s been eight months and I really, really want to be fucked by you, so either get moving or I’ll do it myself and sit on your dick.”  
  
It’s actually a tempting prospect, but he manages to say “ _Wait_ ” before pushing in a third finger. “Eight months or no, I really don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
Ryota doesn’t blink or look embarrassed when he says,  “Maybe I want it rough.” Yukio can’t even protest because his body has already decided that he’s very interested in that idea. So he watches as Ryota reaches for the condom and fumbles with it, and then he’s whining, low in his throat.  
  
“Yukio,” he gasps, shoving the condom into his face. “I just--I want to feel you inside me.”  
  
That’s all the encouragement he needs to tear open the packaging and roll on the condom. Ryota draws his knees up, a clear invitation.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” he groans. Yukio pushes in then, buries himself inside Ryota, whose filter has gone completely offline.  
  
“God, yes. I haven’t been fucked since I left.” He’s completely wrecked already, hair matting against his forehead. Yukio pulls out and slams in again, and he sobs out his name loudly. “Yukio, Yukio, Yukio, fuck. Sometimes I’d finger myself and think about you. I even tried fucking myself with a vibrator, but it wasn’t enough.”  
  
He moans, imagining Ryota on his back, ass clenched around the vibrator as he strokes himself. He thinks about him, hard and desperate, biting his pillow as he rides the mattress frantically.   
  
“Me too,” he admits, resting his forehead against Ryota’s.   
  
Ryota digs his fingers into his shoulders and groans, “Only you--always--I only wanted you.”  
  
And he can’t--there’s nothing to ground him as he thrusts into Ryota, nothing to keep him from falling over the edge as his orgasm jolts down his spine and he comes again without warning, Ryota’s ass impossibly tight around him. His world has narrowed down to Ryota and the waves of pleasure cresting over him, and he makes a broken noise.  
  
“Come with me,” he pleads, and Ryota keens, as broken as he is, and does.   
  
They lie slumped together, breathing hard as they come down from their mutual orgasms. After a little bit, Yukio pulls out of Ryota and throws the condom away. He reaches for a discarded shirt and wipes them both clean.  
  
“That’s mine you know,” Ryota says.  
  
“I think it’s served a higher purpose now.” He tosses it to some corner of the room.  
  
“That’s my _f avorite_ shirt,” Ryota amends, making Yukio roll his eyes.   
  
“You won’t even need a shirt for at least a week,” he says, and kisses him.   
  
Ryota sighs happily. “It’s good to be home.”  
  
*  
  
It’s strange to be anywhere other than the gym for a change, but it feels good to be out in the sun as he makes his way across the court with the rebound. Ryota wasn’t kidding when he said he wasn’t slacking off for eight months. With his victory slowly slipping from his grasp, he can’t let the ball get stolen again.  
  
“You sure you can keep up?” Ryota asks, and when the hell had he caught up to Yukio?  
  
“Shut up, I’m only two years older than you!”  
  
Ryota laughs. “Two entire years, you mean.” Yukio tells himself that he’s distracted by Ryota’s laugh, and that’s why Ryota manages to steal the ball from him and make off towards his end of the court again.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“Come and get me, tiger!” he calls over his shoulder.  
  
Yukio shakes his head, grins, and takes off after him.  
  
*  
  
 _EPILOGUE_  
  
“I don’t like small children,” Yukio confesses.   
  
Ryota blinks at him. “But...they’re so cute.”  
  
“They’re cute until you hand them a Mr. Sketch marker and then your life is over.” He shudders at the memory of his last visit to Tetsuya’s class. Most people who saw that would have avoided going near the classroom again, and Yukio would have done the same, except Tetsuya had called and asked him to come to show-and-tell with Ryota. Actually, the bastard had called Ryota and told him about show-and-tell, because Ryota was a sucker for anyone under the age of ten. And just like that, Yukio was signed up to come to show-and-tell for a bunch of monsters disguised as small children.   
  
He feels ridiculous standing outside a kindergarten classroom door wearing his uniform. At least he doesn’t have to hold the ball. That’s Ryota’s job, but he seems perfectly at ease in his own uniform. He’s spinning the ball on his finger, most likely thinking about how best to show off for the terrors inside. Come to think of it, Yukio hasn’t thought of anything to say to them either.  
  
It’s too late to try and come up with anything, though, because Tetsuya’s sticking his head out the door and waving them in. Ryota smiles at him and he mirrors it, walking into the classroom. There’s a sea of tiny faces looking up at him with bright eyes, and even though they’re monsters, he doesn’t have to try very hard to see himself in them too.  
  
“Hello, class. I know that many of you enjoy sports, so today I invited two of my friends to come for show-and-tell,” Tetsuya announces. “Please say hi to Mr. Yukio Kasamatsu and Mr. Ryota Kise, who play basketball for the Los Angeles Clippers.”  
  
There’s a round of hellos, and he still has nothing even after the last straggler lets out their “hello.” Ryota looks over at him expectantly. Yukio doesn’t even know why, since he wasn’t the one whowanted to be here. Even Tetsuya is staring at him now, though, so he opens his mouth and hopes something intelligible comes out.  
  
“Um, I, well...it wasn’t easy getting to play for the Clippers. I’m sure you all know that.” Of course they don’t, they’re five years old. Yukio clears his throat and tries again. He can do it. He’s played the Lakers and won, he’s sure he can give a presentation to small children. “It wasn’t easy, but um, I was lucky because I had lots of good friends, like Ryota and Mr. Tetsu.”   
  
It’s really fucking hard, he wants to say, like he did in his most recent interview with Satsuki. You’ll want to cry and punch the wall repeatedly, and some days you’re going to think it’s not worth it, because everyone’s told you that it’s impossible, and you already believed them once. Maybe they’re still right. He looks at their faces, all these kids he can see himself in, and he knows that’s not what they need to hear.  
  
For once, the right words come to him. “Don’t be afraid,” he says. “That’s the most important thing. Even when you’re really sad, and you don’t want to try anymore, you have to tell yourself that: don’t be afraid. One day you can make it.”   
  
\----

\--

-

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an AU that spiraled into something more where these characters are Asian Americans living in Los Angeles. First names are used for this reason and most of the plot is integral to their Asian American identities. Thanks for reading!
> 
> A note on music:
> 
> The songs that appear in this story, in order, are "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" by The Smiths, "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?" by She & Him, "Sugar Town" by Nancy Sinatara, and "Offbeat" by Clara C. The FST for this fic can be found [here](http://kisemacchi.tumblr.com/post/30302778395/500-days-of-kise-playlist).


End file.
